


The Way She Refused, In Silence

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Violence, Catharsis Ending, Child Murder, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, a woman's right to choose, negative feelings about motherhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She tried to avoid this. It didn't work. Everyone smugly told her that she was going to love being a mother.But now, the same day she brings it home from the hospital, she has a plan to take back her freedom.
Kudos: 10
Collections: Anonymous





	The Way She Refused, In Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Kindly read the tags and summary, if for some reason you didn't do that before clicking through. Nothing nice happens in this story: the POV character genuinely hates babies. You've been warned.

Pretending was the worst part. Allowing the _thing_ to latch onto her breast for the post-birth nursing they said it needed. Keeping a smile on her face so that the nurses and doctors would suspect nothing, so that she'd be discharged and left alone to finally end this nightmare.

It was asleep in its car seat when she got home. It would wake up, wanting to feed again, soon. That was all she was to it: an attendant, a servant, a source of food. 

_You'll love being a mom_ , they all told her through smug smiles. _You'll see. All women do. No one can look at a baby without loving it._

She was so tired and sore. The thing had taken seventeen hours to rip its way out of her body, inch by inch, heedless of her screaming. Incapable of even caring how much agony it had caused her. She had spent the previous months trying to ignore the spasms of the thing inside her, thinking about how best to minimize the mess and the fuss when she got her chance. Thought at first that smothering it would be best — and she had craved that so powerfully to do it right in the hospital, to take her chance with one of the thin, taxpayer-funded pillows she was left to recover on. But she would never have been able to dispose of the remains without drawing notice — which meant she would be punished for taking back her freedom.  
No, she knew now in the safety of her home — she was right to wait until now. 

She prepared. Gathered the plastic mop bucket, the carving knife, and a whole roll of paper towels into the bathroom. Carried the baby seat in and undressed the thing, throwing its clothes directly into the garbage can.

It took longer than necessary: the thing writhed, mindless and random as an unearthed worm, its uncomprehending eyes fixed on her. And it flinched when she laid it on the cold bottom of the bathtub. Screwed up its face in affront and rage, and inhaled, the calm before a screeching storm. Panic spiked inside her, an equally mindless instinctual directive to soothe the thing's screaming. To submit to her animal heritage and raise young. Because _its_ screaming was allegedly more important than hers.

She hated it. She _hated_ this abomination, this malformed thing that looked only vaguely like a person. Hated this town and hated everyone who had told her no when she _tried_ to circumvent this mistake before it was too far along to stop. The painkillers were wearing off, her tormented body throbbing — and then it opened its black hole mouth and made a scream that rattled off the bathroom tile. A taste of what awaited her, day and night and night and day, if she gave in now.

She didn't need to think — she simply tightened her grip on the knife handle and plunged the blade in. Seizing her chance. Putting into practice what she had rehearsed a thousand times in her mind. The rubbery flesh of its throat yielded easily to the blade's edge, splitting open and bubbling thickly red. Its cry sharpened, giving way to wet gurgling and struggling. Struggled slower and slower until it stilled, eyes fixed on her. Looking no more aware or comprehending than it had when it was breathing.

She waited, watching its still form, for what must have been minutes. Making sure there was no more life in it, no last twitches. It had been so simple to kill this thing and she wished, oddly, that it had the ability to fight her, to lunge at her, clawing openly for her throat. That she had gotten to release all the pent and howling dogs of vengeance inside her.

But babies couldn't do that. It had been easy, and now, it was over. She waited for the worst of the blood to creep away down the drain. Tightened her numb hand around the knife handle again and stabbed it — driving the blade into its chest, its guts, its face. Letting her anger creep away down the drain, too, by punctuating everything she had thought in the last nine months. 

When she was done, she put the mutilated thing in the bucket and covered it with paper towels — enough to pass for meat scraps on their way to the compost pile, if anyone should see her walking from back door to back garden. She had always disliked waste. She washed her hands and washed the bathtub until the red streaks and splashes were gone, and she changed into her gardening clothes. 

The summer day she stepped out into was heavy and bright. She got the shovel. Went to the center of her garden, where her beloved plants made walls of green and petals that the neighbors' eyes couldn't pry through. Dug a hole in between her tea roses and her viburnum, one shovelful at a time, delving down deeper than seemed necessary. This was arguably a grave, she supposed — but it lacked the significance. Maybe she could plant something nice over top to make best use of this entire mess. To recycle her suffering into something beautiful. The thought of leafing through a gardening catalogue in perfect silence, and spending a little money on whatever _she_ wanted, sent a wisp of joy curling through her. A piece of the hope she hadn't felt in so long.

Finally, the pieces were all buried and the soil patted firmly into place over top. She leaned on the shovel, shaking. She was sore and exhausted — but as she stood in the warm downpour of sunlight, she was free.


End file.
